


The Hunter and The Hare

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Category: Hush (2016 Flanagan)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Enthusiastic Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Impalement, Major Character Injury, Masks, Masochism, No actual noncon, Pain, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, S&M, Sadism, Stabbing, Violent Sex, the mask stays on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-15 05:11:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16056224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Summary: You can run of course, but very few can outrun a crossbow bolt in the cold... afraid and alone. Then again, very few find being pinned to a tree trunk by a steel bolt as good as a hit of morphine...Anon asked: Perhaps something with the killer from Hush? Taking place before the movie, and with his mask staying on for the whole thing?A/N: Day 5 of Kinktober for sadomasochism. Please see tags for warnings. <3





	The Hunter and The Hare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



Wind dries the sweat from her brow before she can feel it clog her eyes but the clean line of sight towards the thick grove of pine trees doesn’t mean a thing when an arrow shoots beside her neck. Terms like ‘safe distance’ have no real world bearing when bolts disappear past her galloping body, heralding into the abyssal maze of woodland darkness. He is hunting her - whoever ‘he’ is - and tonight has been long… but one proper shot will shorten not just the night but everything from here on out. 

Her body is sore and tired and yet she runs relentlessly onward. Muscles tear and burn in sweet heat with each crunch of earthen detritus. Cloying odors of fresh leaves and cold pine sap make her nose run but it is the next arrow loosened, just shy of her hip, that makes her startle and sneeze.

That split second off darkness - her eyes squeezed shut - leaves her running blind. Just one microsecond of incoordination and the next her eyes snap open, she runs straight against a thick tree trunk. For one moment, all she’s focused on is the ache in her breasts that jettison a pang between her thighs. The jagged bark cuts into a naked shoulder; exposed by a torn sleeve earlier during their short, very physical scuffle. Everything, including the itch of pollen and hopelessness, is shot from her body by a bolt of breathless pain. 

The woods flutter with upended nocturnal animals as she screams, pinned to the wooden trunk in a way that’s wholly unnatural and horrific. 

An arrow - a fucking crossbow bolt - is lodged in her shoulder, entering her and the pine into a relationship through metal and hard plastics. 

Boots blunder across dying vegetation. He’s no longer concerned with staying quiet. The man in the mask has her right where he wants her; in pain and imprisoned by the pain. The rotten feeling is a hot ache, but it doesn’t stay rotten for long. It ebbs into a wet warmth that licks pleasure into the pain. 

She blinks against clusters of honeycombed bark and carefully grabs the width of the trunk with her left hand. Her right arm is useless… everything from the point of contact with the bolt and down might as well not exist. 

A moan… unconditioned and unwelcomely sexual puffs against the bark. 

The footsteps pause. 

With a dulled mind, she barely hears the continued crunch of dead leaves beneath heavy, purposeful steps. She whimpers. The sensation of the world shrinking - of the hunter closing in - wraps around her. She can feel him at her back, edging around her side where the bolt has her stuck to the tree. He’s the hunter approaching his wounded prey, silent and calculating. 

The air is cold, steaming her breath as it gasps in shuddering exhales from her throat. The ache in her shoulder throbs with each contracting valve - each pulse of heart tissue and muscle fiber. She stares; pain forcing tears to lay poised in thick, fluttering lashes.

He’s a man, of course. She knew that already, but the way his head bends to the side, masked temple tapping the bark of the tree, exposes the winding snake tattoo and corded neck speckled in closely shaven stubble. Three freckles form a triangle…almost like a broken dipper constellation besides the snake’s pigment-etched head. 

She blinks, moans and watches his throat surge. 

The mask she’d mistaken for unglazed ceramic at a distance appears molded, now; unrefined like hard polymer wax. The effect of it is no less apathetic than a doll’s lifeless face, but the eyes… his eyes are worse. No emotion. No relish. There is only curiosity as she clutches the trunk and pant out conflicted breaths within the dark cold forest, alone but for her killer.

“You really can’t run. Can you.” His words are dampened by his secondary face, hiding a voice that sounds toying, ruthless and above all… bored. It’s not a question. It’s meant to insult. His words are the personification of a cat pawing at a dying mouse - a child playing with his food.

The hard lather of his mask smiles smugly. Blank, watching eyes sway across her scrunched face as though categorizing each line and crease for further assessment. It’s a methodical, clinical survey of his work, but he sees the same thing other men have seen. On her face, she wears blushing cheeks and strained bliss. 

She tenses against the bolt in her body. As she moans, his eyes widen a fraction. The crossbow hanging in his hand - loose against a jean-clad leg - twitches in his fist until he rests it against the base of the tree and pushes a shoulder into the trunk; watching. 

There’s no point in begging for her life. He’s already proved indifferent, and it’s done her not an iota of good, so there’s little to say to him except one… single... thing...

“F’f’f’fuuuck-you.”

The mask shows the same blankness that his eyes do - so oddly devoid and hollow - as he rests his head against the bark and continues watching her breaths fill the air between them both. 

Whoever said that trees were lifeless, were wrong. Even in winter, with the frost about to set in, she can feel the heat bleeding through the pine; sap flowing like blood beneath hard carapace. It’s odd, but there's a sudden intimacy with nature she’s never felt before as her soon to be killer watches her suffer against that dense, nearly phallic-like tree. 

The pine is more empathetic than he is…

“They always get tired eventually,” he comments with an informative tone, but the eyes beneath unglazed apathy stare at her contouring features like a wolf eyeing culled elk.

She scratches the bark as a blistering wave of agony becomes mouthwatering desire. Thin layers of rind peel away like paint chips. 

Yes, she screams when he twangs the bolt attaching her to the tree but the howl ends on a gracious whimper. His eyes flash; hungry. 

The flexible ballistic and steel excess that juts out her back wobbles loudly when he slaps it again, sending an earthquake of nightmarish pain outward, but when the pain recedes, she’s left with a sticky, retreating warmth that doesn’t return to the originating point of pain, but instead contracts lower; deep inside her body where pain shouldn’t resonate.

A slow, deluge of moisture stains her underwear. 

Another moan - this time clogged with an unsaid request - meets bark and his pallid mask. He’s bent, leaning in close to swallow the reaction he gets; curious lust turning into obsessive need. 

Those eyes are… 

“You like that. Don’t you?” This time, it’s a question; spoken softly. 

He sounds rapacious beneath the boredom… so piqued that she wishes it hurt more when he slaps the back of the bolt with malice, hoping to prove she’s not a masochist like he thinks. 

Terrible, upturned pleasure pulls at her brows. Moans spill from between her teeth and her hips bounce off the pine; grinding. 

He begins bouncing the bolt stuck in her shoulder - stuck in the tree - until shockwaves hold her against the bark. Her spine arches and her body weight sags, forcing bone to scrape against the stiff foreign entity within. All that pain… all that delicious pain is like poking a childhood bruise. It’s a soft discomfort - it’s a sensation long instilled with guilt but here… facing death? - who cares? She sobs in noxious bliss and doesn’t care what he thinks. 

“Y-yes… please, yes,” she gasps in cold, harsh gushing moans but he stops drumming the bolt and breathes with shoulder-shaking mirth at the way she whines… wanting more. His eyes are wide in shock but veiled in amusement everywhere else. 

The empty forest chirps with hibernating insects. Nocturnal predators hunt through the tickle of pine needles despite her noisy orchestra, causing distant silence to liven with activity. 

Her masked killer lays a hand on her ruined shoulder, massages the muscles that rope towards her neck until tears race in fat droplets down her cheeks. It’s a test to see how she reacts, and though she cries, the pain returns; blossoming with nectar. All he gets from her is a clogged moan and muttered ‘yess…’ for more. 

The eyes within his rough plaster face lower in newly discovered pleasure. He likes causing pain. Likes killing, of course, or else he’d be hunting elk and not her, but it’s not the same as when he kills… this is physical as much as mental… perhaps insofar into the nether reaches of the physical that it needs a new name completely. 

She stares into those blank orbs and finds a renewed fire. Emotion flickers in his dark eyes, but it’s sadism at its finest and when the blade from his hip is drawn, her true masochism unfolds. She groans with glee, grinning and crying, deciding to enjoy her final moments alive as she pleases.

Al those men she had wanted to choke her that had never done anything beyond some spanking… all the cuts she used to pick open and tease into permanent markings. Those friends that couldn’t understand why she marked her body with fine silver scars… The times when she used to see how far she could make a safety pin go up her nail before trembling with nausea. All those memories come rushing back as he walks around her standing body. 

Despite the mask, he bakes her sweaty neck with heat when he leans in close and whispers, “I’m going to make you hate me,” and roughly stabs the knife through her arm. The sharp, hunting knife pins her further into sap-blooded life until she’s screaming for no one, especially not him. Sharp, nauseous rapture clamps her nails into the bark as his hips just barely brush her backside. 

Thoughtlessly, she throws her ass out into his groin, hitting the hard line of a jean-covered erection, feeling it there - proof - for a second before he hops back; inhaling noisily. 

“Fuck me-“ she tries, wanting to ask him for more pain, but he rushes forward and grabs her hips in a grip meant for someone’s throat. She meant for him to fuck her with more steel, but he mistakes her writhing sweat-soaked moans for him and not the pain. 

She would have screamed louder, for help or mercy or any number of things - just not him - but when he reaches around and hurriedly undoes her jeans, she reconsiders it. There’s no turning him down in her current position, but the idea is… yeah… yess… 

“You fucking slut,” he says behind the mask; against the back of her left shoulder. The way he undoes her pants jostles the objects inside muscle and tendon and that… that is sweetness liquored by pain. 

She grunts raggedly. 

Distant pine trees blur and blend before her eyes. The cold, biting air hits her bare ass and something even colder touches her naked hip - the metal buckle of his belt…

The sound of his zipper being ripped down is loud despite her noisy, eager breathing. 

A hot cock slaps against her backside; leaving a line of wetness off the edge of her hip where the cold chills the moisture like it does the tears on her cheeks. 

Hands, covered in dirty, warm gloves of well-worn leather, grasp her hips. He yanks her ass outwards and up; tearing at her wounds. 

Agony itches in her shoulder and bicep. Thorns become soft silky petals even when his cock finds her wet slice of heat and jams himself home. It’s not the fuck that feels so gorgeous, but he must know that because she doubts it’s just her cunt that makes him pant and groan behind the mask. It’s the pain he causes and the pain she receives that gets them both off. Sex is just a buffer - a boat across the sea. The vessel that carries them both to the shore. 

He thrusts and grabs her by the back of the head, ripping her back and forth over cock and steel and the hard plastic bolt until everything is merely an extension of the pain. The pleasure is sugar-coated by it. The sweat that pours off her skin in flavored by it. Her throaty, troubling gasps for more are laced in it. 

He calls her a bitch and a slut and beats his cock through tight muscles that quiver and suck and leak forth. Cock opens clots too fast for the blood to glue the wounds around embedded objects. 

“Say it,” he snarls, humping up against her ass with dense hips and a nice, solid cock, “... say it… say you want me. Say I’m the only one.”

He’s talking nonsense… some egotistical need to be the only one of something - of sex or pain or both - but he’s too far gone to stop, so she grins and moans and lifts her hips so he glides in smoother. The angle batters her deeper… 

… it makes him choke. Suddenly, she’s in his head - around him. Her masked killer is groping and squeezes her body in ways a lover does. He’s stroking down her stomach, cupping her cunt where they’re joined and holding her hip in place as he slows the motions and savors the moment. 

She’s already cumming when he starts begging her to ‘say it, please’ but he’s not getting it. If he’s going to kill her, well… it’s only death. There’s no fear in the pain, only pleasure, and gratitude. 

Is it any wonder then, that when he finally cums in an oddly human growl, that he spares her after that? It’s not even that he leaves her for dead in the Northern forests with the settling frost. He unsticks her from the tree - her mate - and drags her through the same dead leaves she ran through. 

A smile stretches her lips even as high roots bash and bump her weeping wounds. 

He slings her in the back of a truck… cranks the engine and drives…

… and drives… until darkness swallows her whole and that smile spreads wider. 

She won their little game of cat and mouse.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have the time, please leave me a comment letting me know what worked for you or what didn't.
> 
> Thank you to FleshDust for betaing! <3
> 
>  
> 
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